A broken man
by thecatknowsall
Summary: One-shot John speaks to his therapist about the events of the reichenbach fall SPOILERS S2 Ep3


'John? John Watson?' He stood up from a chair in the furthest corner of the waiting room and walked slowly towards the door. His limp's back; his face still drawn. When he gets a little closer, I speak, 'How are you john?'

'Fine. Shame about the weather though?'

'Yes, all this rain. Good for the plants I suppose.' By now we are walking into my room. I sit down, crossing my legs. I sit snuggly against the back of the patent leather chair. It will be a long hour, it always is with John. 'Sit.' I gesture to the chair opposite. I continue to talk as he lowers himself against the coarse fabric of his chair. 'How have you been feeling this week?'

He doesn't answer, instead looks to the floor. I scribble Pick up milk on my pad, before I forget, and gaze back at him for a beat before continuing.

'Been sleeping ok?' He nods in response. Though I can tell he's lying, the bags under his eyes are darker than last week, sagging lower than before; he can barely keep them open.

'How about eating, are you eating ok?'

'Same as usual, I suppose.' He barely struggles to keep the monotone out of his voice. He still isn't eating, his shirts have begun to hang loosely around him and his skin has become wan. He doesn't think I notice, but I do. It's my job.

'John, how are you coping?'

Silence, bar the clock's steady tick from across the room. Finally he answers, 'N-No different,' his voice breaks. He still isn't coping; he isn't even trying to cope. 'I, I can't forget. I can't stop it playing in my head…' He stutters to a stop, again.

'What can't you get out of your head?' I already know the answer, but he has to say it. He has to let it out. He still hasn't begun to grieve properly. He hasn't started on the route to recovery yet, he needs to accept what's happened, realise it wasn't his fault, that things like this happen.

I lean back into my chair, realising this will take time, waiting for him to reply. Eventually he does.

'Him on the roof, just standing there, waiting to drop. I wasn't quick enough; he was so far away on the roof. He was speaking to me, on his phone of course, telling me he was a liar, telling me I was wrong. Then he was falling; falling like a puppet without strings. The ground coming closer and closer and…' He can't continue. I don't push the subject any further.

Silence swallows the room for a time. I decide I need to speak again.

'I know it must be hard. He was your friend,'

'He is my friend. He is.'

'John,' I try to come up with another way of phrasing the subject. He's in denial. 'John,' I start again, more resolutely. 'He is dead, he isn't coming back. John, you have to accept that he isn't going to miraculously return from the dead. You're in denial, it's been six-'

'I know it's been six bloody months! You think I don't know that, but I do, I'm not an idiot. Do you think I can't see the way they stare at me? Avoid speaking to me? You think I don't know that my sister set these appointments up, to try and help me. That the only reason I'm here is to get her off my back, get them all off my back. How can I live like this? How can I live, knowing he won't be sitting on his chair when I get in, or playing his violin, or solving a puzzle?' His words fall in torrents, 'I know he's dead,' his voice deathly quiet and his shoulders hunched over, he continues anyway. 'I know he's not coming back. I just… ' He trails off, I wait a moment, but he continues. 'I just don't. I don't want to give up on him.' A lone tear slides down his face; he ignores it.

'I know. I know.' I say it softly, trying to tell him I understand what it's like. How can I? How can I possibly understand what it's like to see my friend hurl themselves off a five storey building? To understand what it's like to be told that everything he said, everything he did was a lie, time and time again, not only by the newspapers, but by everyone he knows.

He sits in the chair for a while, not speaking. The quiet is uneasy, but talking would be worse. When the hour's up he grips the chair as he stands. Walking slowly to the door, he shuts it behind him.

He is a broken man.


End file.
